


Blackout Days

by brittlelimbs



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alpha Kylo Ren, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Bonding, Claiming, DarkPilot, M/M, Omega Poe Dameron, darkside poe, heat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6147655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe Dameron defines himself in simple terms: he's the best TIE pilot the in the First Order, a killer marksman with a spotless record, and, lastly, an Omega. In precisely that order, with Omega as the footnote. Swept under the rug. </p><p>Until Kylo Ren, of course, comes along and royally fucks that order up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Poe makes it back to his bunk. Barely. He punches his code into the door with trembling fingers, and swears he’s never been so thankful for the fact that, when you’re as good as him at what he does, they give you your own room—shit’s about to get real fuckin’ ugly. He’s gasping with it, tumbling through the door and into the cool darkness, and suddenly can’t shuck himself of his flightsuit quickly enough; he hasn’t felt like this since he was sixteen, _fuck_ , the first time he knew what he was:

O-me-ga.

Three syllables, rounded and full, just as an Omega should be, according to the educational holotapes they’d shown him when he’d presented. The sound of it doesn’t quite resonate with his other titles ( _Bucket-heads_ , the Resistance calls First Order pilots, _Coffin jockeys_ ), but Poe doesn’t mind being Omega, he really doesn’t-- It gives him an edge, quick fingers and hair-trigger reflexes hardwired into his biology; no knot-head, no scentless Beta, could take the turns the way he does, downing X-wings like it’s easier than breathing. _Bang, bang._ Potshots. He’d screamed his way to the top of the Order flight program at the controls of his TIE, grinning into the g-force, shattering record on record. That was years ago, now, and he’s learned to love that part of himself. Takes pills for the parts that he doesn’t.

Like this part.

 _Fuck_ Kylo Ren, Poe thinks as he peels down to the inner bodyglove, shedding the outer vacuum suit and wadding it up, tossing it into a nonspecific corner. The skintight layer comes quickly after, wrangling the sweat-salty heaviness of it off around his hard-on with some difficulty. The panels on the ass and insides of his thighs are soaking wet, mortifying, saturated with slick.

The bastard had fucking _bitten_ him.

It had been the first time Poe had ever flown the command shuttle. The thing is Upsilon-class, for starssake, something much bulkier than Poe is really comfortable with piloting, but they’d called him up, all the same. He didn’t really have a choice. Something about a poor, hapless Resistance fuck with a map, something about an old legend that Poe didn’t care enough about to remember; didn’t matter, save for that Kylo Ren needed to get to Jakku _now_ , and Poe was the only guy they trusted enough to get it done. So he’d roused himself at an ungodly hour, hauled ass to the hanger, and piloted the damned thing towards this sand-ball nobody cared about, a graveyard on the Outer Rim where Star Destoyers went to die.

He waited in the cockpit when they landed, controls heavy in his hands, watching as the villagers were slaughtered. Heard their inhuman screams, could almost imagine the stench of their cooked flesh as they were rounded up and gunned down. He did not move. He did not blink.

Then, all at once, Poe had this guy in the backseat, hustled up by a handful of troopers on all sides of him. _Finn_ , someone said, his name is _Finn_ , and the guy’s smile was all cockiness, even through the blood pinkening his teeth. Poe knew this name; this man was a pretty big deal. Resistance hotshot, highly decorated for a kid of his age, distinction won by the blood of Poe’s brothers in the battle of some far-off moon.

Ren was right behind them, tall and dark and stinking with the smell of singed animal flesh.

“You’ll never get _shit_ from me,” Finn had said as he brushed past, hawking and spitting at the hem of Ren’s robes.

“Quiet, prisoner.” Ren’s voice was fuzzed and gritty through the mask, like some second-hand audio wave. He didn’t spare Finn a second glance, already looking towards Poe:

“Pilot! Prepare for departure,”

“Rightaway, boss,” Poe said, releasing the secondary locks, throwing the ship into drive with the pull of a lever. He was more than ready to get the fuck out of there.

 

So he’d gotten them home safely, prisoner and all. In record time, too. Someone had clapped him on the shoulder after they’d touched down, _Best pilot in the First Order_ _yadda yadda_ , nothing to write home about. He’d flown safe, he’d flown smart.

But this is where Poe had been stupid: the helmet. He’d taken it off in the cockpit as soon as he’d cooled the ship down. Disengaged the seal with a hiss, pulled it over his head as quickly as possible, feeling asphyxiated; something about how the his breathing was echoing too loudly inside it, the imagined smell of all those charred bodies settled into the cushioning around his jaw and temples. Lingering, making his eyes water. He’d put the helmet on his lap, taking deep, long breaths through his nose to center himself, running a hand through his sweaty curls, and then made to leave. He wanted to take a scorching hot shower, then go fuck to sleep, precisely in that order.

Until, of course, it wasn’t quite so simple. Ren was standing there like a shadow by the belly hatch, waiting, when Poe swivled around in the pilot’s chair. Ren’s helmet was wedged under his arm, and Poe honest-to-god _jumped_ in his seat at the sight; He’d never seen Ren’s face before—never even _heard_ of anyone having seen his face before, and it was absolutely jarring to see the pale flesh under that beetle-mask. He’d expected something less soft, a little more brutalized, scarred-up, homely. Nothing at all, perhaps, just a black hole where Ren’s head should be, filling the helmet with the cold inky void of space.

 _Kylo Ren is human_ , Poe realized, tracing the line of that long face, brooding lips and eyes. Right. And then, by addendum: _Kylo Ren is—handsome_?

“S-Sir?” Poe couldn’t help the tremor in his voice as he stood, helmet tucked clumsily under his elbow; he couldn’t seem to find his footing. When had the floor become so unsteady, so uneven-keeled?

“Stand down, solider,” Ren growled.

And with that, ultimately, Poe had realized this:

Kylo Ren is _Alpha_ and Poe is _fucked_.

There were subvocals in that voice he’d never heard before, didn’t know he could react to, until they were suddenly plucking across the chords of him like some fucked-up instrument, making his heartbeat go haywire with the reverb of it. His deep-code, the very filaments tangled in the spiral of his DNA, shivering along with the vibration that low, gorgeous bass. Call and response, action and reaction. _Mate_.

Suddenly, Poe couldn't move. He was vaguely aware of his helmet hitting the ground with a dull clank, slipped from the grip of his sweating, shaking fingers. He felt like he was trying to swallow his tongue, the great, gorged mass of it sitting in his mouth like clay.

“I—I—“

There was no survival instinct to override this, no move that his body could willingly make to take a single step away from this huge, beautiful, terrible _Alpha_ that was suddenly all crowded up in his space, breathing his air.

And fuck, but did he smell fantastic. Like every square inch of home that Poe was never afforded, like the clean tang of Starkiller’s brisk air, the syrup-sweet of pine. Ozone burn-smell. High-altitude, risk and adrenaline and everything that Poe has ever dreamed of chasing out there in open skies, in space. A strange assortment of scents that each, in turn, dig into different parts of Poe, gripping tightly to his brain. The neurological pathway of Ren’s presence, singularly specific, impressed into Poe’s mind like a brand within the span of a hot second.

He will never forget that smell.

When Poe came back to himself, Ren’s hands were rough in the harness of his flighsuit. It was almost like he was frisking Poe, parsing through his uniform for a weapon, but somehow softer, more of a delineation of sorts: _You’re here, and I’m here_ , said his hands, running themselves along his shoulders, tucking themselves into his armpits, drawing Poe in towards his chest. Their armored layers clanking together, clumsy.

 _Yes? Yes_ , said Poe’s body in response, confused and bewitched and aroused in every possible sense. He had Ren’s hair in his mouth, and he could actively feel forebrain receding into the murk of this thing. This need.

And then—the fuck? Poe only had a second to try to orient himself— _the dashboard, his cheek is smashed up against the dashboard_ \-- and there was a starburst of pain from the nape of his neck. And that was simply fucking _it_.

The deepest, most innate part of his biology, pushing up and in and through him as it rose to the surface like magma, shaking the dust from its shoulders after years of dormancy: his heat.

His fucking _heat_.

 

So here he is, stumbling blindly in his bunk, beginning to ride roughshod over the foothills of the first heat he’s had in over a decade. Poe’s miserable. The bastard fucking claimed him, then left! Poof! Gone, leaving Poe to hike up the bloody collar of his suit, try to make it to his quarters on his own two feet, wobbling, unsteady. He keens at the thought; he doesn’t know much about dynamics, but can piece together this much: Ren’s behavior is fucking unheard of.

Left to his own devices, he considers hopping in the shower, trying to cool off in the only way he knows how. But he figures that it’ll only dull the ache. Evaporate right off his skin as soon as he steps out. _Ugh._ He rubs at his eyes with his balled fists; he can barely see straight anymore, head too crammed with fever to make room for something so pedantic as, say, vision. Droplets of slick are rolling down his thighs, now, hot, sweet, making tracks across his calves and ankles. Fucking Omega.

Poe groans, finally curling up on his scratchy, standard-issue sheets, hand on his dick, trying to find some relief; this is every part he hates. Pitiful, sticky and disgusting, can’t see or know or think of anything but sex. He’s pining for Ren with everything he has, fantasizing about a huge knot he’s never seen, but knows _must_ be there, somewhere in the nebulous cloud _need_ that defines Ren in the context of his hazy mind. For that scent, for that bite. He’s never wanted kids, never even thought about that possibility, but now, oh _god_ , he wants to _whelp_. His eyes roll back in his head as he thinks of it, stripping his cock: two pups, three. More—he doesn’t care, would give Ren as many as he might be able to bear for him.

Some tiny, flint of rationality screams that _this is fucked_! Poe Dameron, flying ace, best pilot the First Order has ever seen, so needy for his commander’s knot that he’s _crying_ with it.

 _He is not himself, he is not himself,_ he says, grasping at coherent thought, feeling his slick spilling down the inside of his thighs. Flooding. Fertile.

But there’s the honest truth, between his legs: The Omega bones of him, down and down, beneath his scars, his blasterburns and hotshot smile.

Poe trembles in his bed, remembering Ren's scent. 

He will see no mercy tonight. 


	2. Chapter 2

It takes two days. Two slick-soaked, half-mad, mother _fucking_ days for Kylo Ren to finally stop being such a yellow-bellied coward. To take responsibility for the mess of an Omega he’s so artfully made. They’re two of the worst days of his entire life; Poe’s almost gone by the time he’s found, disoriented and exhausted, but, most of all, incredibly dehydrated. Everything’s been so spent on sweat and slick that he’s thoroughly parched, bare enough moisture in his mouth to wet his tongue with. In some strange, out-of body thought (could be a dream, everything seems like a dream), Poe realizes that he’s stopped crying into his bunk and is wheezing, instead. Hoarse, needy, utterly pitiful. Meanwhile, he keeps pumping slick like he’s good for nothing else, sheets and mattress soaked through, the pillow he put between his legs some hazy length of time ago reduced nothing more than a pathetic, sodden wad. It would be impressive, honestly, if Poe wasn’t so kriffing _miserable_.

To the First Order’s credit, someone gave him meds a while ago, something to _try_ and help, at least. A knock-kneed cadet, one gloved hand clamped over her nose, her mouth, and a pill in the other. _Poor Omega_. Poe would laugh at the irony, if he could: Ren couldn’t have fucked with Poe more thoroughly if he’d been planning it for months. This, all of this, is Poe’s worst nightmare, why he flew so high and opened the throttle so far. Warp-speeding away from heats and hormones, the way Betas faces wrinkle in disgust at the smell of a bitch in heat. To be fair to the cadet, Poe probably smelled like absolute death; the pungent slurry-scent of ripe, unwashed Omega that desperately needs knotting—it ain’t exactly flowers. But fuck, he never wanted this, any of it at all, and, squirming on his bunk, Poe swears that he’d peel himself right out of his own skin if it meant that he might never feel like this again. His ass and cock are chafed positively raw from trying to sate himself, but his fingers are paltry. Ineffective. Like trying to fix a hyperdrive with a screwdriver; he just ain’t got the right tools for the job.

But he'll live, he told himself, hours piling on top of each other. At least in theory—time was sort of abstracted, at this point. Just one continuous, needy pulse, punctuated by little intervals of semi-awareness, slitted eyes checking the progress of artificial sunlight across the room. Then moonlight. Then sunlight again.

Poe told himself he wouldn’t die from this, but time had passed and passed in the fog of this terrible fever and he had thought: _I might?_

 _You might die_ , agreed his forebrain, warping up from the depths. _You could_. Body running on all possible cylinders, spending itself to the point of utter exhaustion, self-destructive, self-sacrificing, waiting patiently for Ren. Waiting to be taken by the owner of that fickle bite, the man who will not come.

And so Poe Dameron had curled up to himself, shivering so hard that he teeth chattered in his scull, and prayed to nameless gods for deliverance from himself. Damned Kylo Ren to hells he didn’t know, sufferings that he couldn’t even describe, for making him to be this way.

 

Until, of course, _now_ : Poe’s consciousness is roused abruptly, rolling over, peeking up from the nauseating, molten current of his heat. He can’t tell why, at first, and then realizes it’s the door. Opening, closing again, and—

Poe’s been punched in the stomach before. More than once, if he’s honest; the blinding explosion that comes with a fist to the gut has become familiar, the feeling knuckles cracking hard and bony right under his ribs, the meaty, sickening thud of it made into something he can recognize. The door opens, and Poe has enough experience to know: this feels kinda exactly like that. The smell hits him, hard, dragging his eyes open, pushing the rattling breath from his lungs, and he’s left reeling with it. He’s not sure that the divine scent is even _real_ for that first second, isn’t sure if he wants it to be, feeling inexplicably unprepared, and yet so, _so_ ready that he can’t possibly stand the feeling for a moment longer.

Ren (it’s him, _him!_ ) looks animal. Pure feral, just by the stance of him, pushing past the doorway and in one towering sweep of robes that’s so huge and dark and singular in purpose that Poe abruptly _floods_ with slick. Instinctual, straining. He can’t make up his mind, can’t move, can’t _breathe_ until he hears the pneumatic hiss of that helmet, the hollow clank as it’s thrown aside in the span of the same breath.

Ren’s eyes are fucking wild. Whatever man was there, the pale and handsome thing that Poe had found all those eons before, he’s gone, now. His red mouth is parted and his hair is plastered to his forehead in sweaty curls, making it abundantly clear that this delay, this separation, has been a masochistic move on Ren’s part, too. It’s satisfying, in some distant, imprecise way. But that’s for later.

“You,” Ren growls. Maybe. Poe can’t be sure; the sound is lost somewhere between the sweep and jangle of clothing, the blood-rush of Poe’s pulse as he flips onto his belly at sound of his Alpha, natural as breathing. He’s popping his hips up before he can think, offering himself, and somewhere, face buried in the mattress, Poe blushes harder because _ohfuckohfuck_ this is slutty as _hell_. Face down, ass up, presenting, needy as any raunchy Omega stereotype he’s ever heard, any joke one of his fellow pilots ever cracked. Figures. Doesn’t matter, though, because Ren honest-to-god _roars_ at the sight and nothing has ever once felt so incredibly reliving to Poe as this. He croaks, trying to peel open his eyelids enough to figure out what the fuck is going on, why the fuck Ren _isn’t in him already_.

And then he is.

In one clean, long movement, simple amidst the bedlam of their salt-sweat and tangled breath, Ren comes home. Feeding in and in and in, filling Poe in the same way one slakes thirst, abates hunger. The kind of satisfaction that surpasses language and hardwires itself in a hot line straight to Poe’s chafed cock.

He curls his fists into the gnarly sheets. Ren’s _big_ , bigger than he ever might have guessed, and Poe realizes, vaguely, that he’s drooling with it, desert-mouth suddenly swamping with spit, eyes blurring with tears. His hindbrain is ecstatic; if this is Ren normally, then—Poe squirms in vain, trying to rattle his stupid, lust-drugged mind, shake it out of the repeated mantra of knotknotknot, looping over and over like a broken holotape. Classic O, losing his shit over the size of his Alpha. Disgusting. But his veins are thrumming with the need of it, undeniably, going limp, letting Ren’s sweaty hands grip his shoulder, his hip, and take that first sweet drawback. Poe feels the brush of Ren’s undershirt, his half-torn clothes, against his shoulderblades, the little teeth of Ren’s fly splayed just under his ass.

Yes, Poe’s babbling. Yes. Yes. It’s so good. Ren is on his back and in his ears in inside the very heat of him, and it’s hasty, but it’s perfect; he’s only fucked Poe in earnest for a grand total of three seconds when Poe is _ready_ , toes curling, pulling taught as an overripe fruit on the very verge of splitting—and then Ren stops.

NO, NO. His mind is screaming. What the fuck is this! He searches groggily for words, mind suddenly shifting gears as it’s shunted backwards, down from the edge of orgasm.

He grits his teeth, trying to hike back and up against Ren, who’s gone stiff as a board. It goes against every Omega cell in his body to disrespect an Alpha like this, to backtalk, but damn, Poe is tired of being left high and dry. Of waiting for this fucking stupid knotbrain to get with the program: sex. They’re having sex, and you don’t do this kind shit during sex. Especially when Poe Dameron, the best pilot Ren’s _got_ , has already been waiting _two fucking_ _days_ for it.

His voice is tiny but sharp, snuck in between panted breaths.

“The _fuck_ , man—“

Ren’s hand tastes like salt. It’s huge, calloused where Ren wraps it over his mouth, abruptly shutting Poe up. Poe bites him, of course, on principle, and Ren hisses, but he doesn't let go.

“Someone’s—there,” he say into the space above Poe’s shoulder, grappling with the concept of speech, messily spilling his humid breath and salty curls absolutely everywhere.

In the same split instant, there’s a knock on Poe’s door. He jumps. There are a million different mortifying scenarios are suddenly flashing through his mind. There’s no way deny what they’re doing, even to the passing gaze; the lines of their bodies are unmistakably fucking, Poe naked, piked up on his knees, Ren blanketed over him. All the little soft, Omega bits of him are about to be exposed, and there’s nothing in the world that Poe could do to hide it.

“Pilot Dameron,” says a man’s voice, muffled by the durasteel. “Your presence is requested on the bridge.”

Ren somehow bundles himself up around Poe even further, using the hand at Poe’s mouth to tuck his chin to his chest, exposing Poe’s neck. He can feel Ren’s breath there, brushing his nape, ragged, but steady. The set of the endless body above him says: _They will not hear you they will not touch you they will not see you for you are mine and mine alone._

And Poe, in all of his eloquent acquiescence, says: _okay_. He couldn’t physically say anything else; they are nothing but Alpha and Omega in the tension of this moment. Ren’s gonna fucking fight that officer if they open that door, Poe realizes, snorting little panted breaths through his nose, the only air he’s allowed around his Alpha’s hand. Ren’s gonna fucking _kill_ them. He quashes the sick trickle of Omega glee that leaks through his gut at the very idea of it. Ren would kill for him, now. He knows this.

But in the end, he doesn’t have to; after a few more knocks and a vague _General Hux specifically requested—_ Ren hums, and everything on the other side of the door goes silent. Poe can’t say he’s personally acquainted with the Force, but he’s pretty sure that you shouldn’t use it like that.

“He’s going to kill me,” Ren mutters, somewhere around his right ear, and Poe jumps. Who?

“What?— _ngh_ ,” and he doesn’t get to finish, words punched right out of him; Ren is starting up the rhythm again, as if they’d never stopped. As if they are one continuous, seamless whole, and it’s something that Poe finds to be the heavy truth. No matter how much he buck beneath the weight of it.

Ren cries out as they draw close, Poe’s own shout choked behind the hand that has returned, gripping around his jaw, dogged, like a vice. They’ve been so delicately suspended for so long, trembling on tenderhooks since that night two days ago, since that bite, that it’s pure need. They’re blind; Ren’s blood is in Poe’s mouth, bit that hand a little too hard, but it’s fine. Ren’s bloody palm is against his forehead, smearing hot copper everywhere as he forcibly holds Poe to him and _thrusts_ , but this is how things are meant to be. He’s never smelled more like his Alpha than in this moment, and that’s precisely what tips him over the edge.

_Bliss._

It’s pathetically easy for both of them to come. Poe goes first, sobbing with the sheer enormity of it, with Ren pulled down right behind. He finds the mark he made, again, fits his teeth home, and Poe never knew that anything could be as good as this.

 

They settle. There’s no space left between the two of them, tied tight by Ren’s swollen knot. Poe shivers, completely, utterly sticky and spent. He feels the stretch and burn of Ren, how he’s so full, will be made fuller still, for as long Ren keeps coming. Poe hopes, reflexively, for an eternity.

Through his euphoric haze of knotting hormones, of dopamine, Poe wriggles; there’s an unexpectedly light touch against his shoulder, long fingers tracing the stiff texture of an old scar. A relic of a mission to some forgotten jungle planet, when Poe had to cut himself from his own wreck, burning and shrapnel-riddled and grinning with the coursing adrenaline of being _alive_.

Right. He says a silent prayer for that Poe Dameron. The cocky, competent pilot, the one loved beta girls and their soft, sweet curves. He feels the pulsing heat of the knot, the ache of the old blaster burns he carries on his chest, and knows with complete certainty that he’s been spoiled. Nothing else will ever be this good. Suddenly, Poe can’t breathe; he’s _trapped_. Kylo Ren, this fucking _bastard_ , has gone and clipped his wings.

For better or for worse, the First Order’s best pilot is grounded.

 

Later, when Ren gives him a little pill to swallow, Poe cries again. But this time, it’s only a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well ive gone off the rails 
> 
> floatin-on-bespin.tumblr.com
> 
> comments always v welcome !

**Author's Note:**

> oh lord here's the pairing you never asked for with a trope you never needed  
> take it
> 
> was inspired by [this](http://floatin-on-bespin.tumblr.com/post/140239506219/swearydroid-nervouscupcakestudent) amazing pic by nichacheng... wrote this shit in one night, hope it does it justice
> 
> floatin-on-bespin.tumblr.com
> 
> comments welcome, as always


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